


Gastfreundschaft

by silkinsilence



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, F/F, Humiliation, Objectification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/F/F, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-10-23 17:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17687462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkinsilence/pseuds/silkinsilence
Summary: ⌖ Angela serves tea and herself to Captain Amari and Doctor O'Deorain.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> something something femslash february, something something these dirty hands, something something further installments as the month progresses

“Hurry up, Angela.”

The voice drifts, warm and pleasant, from the next room, not raised at all but still clear and audible. Angela tenses. Her arms are covered in goosebumps, not because of how little she is wearing but because of that command. She is filled with a nervous excitement. This is already uncharted territory with Ana, her captain and mistress, but their guest’s presence makes her feel even more indecent. These liaisons have gone on long enough that she has mostly swallowed down her disgust with herself, but now repulsion is rising to the surface again. She wants what is about to happen. She will enjoy it. How debased she is.

But there is no time for feeling such things. Her thoughts and wants do not matter in this moment. Ana has commanded her, and so she will obey. She will perform, as she always does, as she loves to do.

She carefully lifts the tray. Shaking will not do. Slowly she breathes in and out and then exits the tiny adjoining kitchenette to where the other two await.

Her thighs rub against one another. Without panties, she can feel her own slickness, the glide of wet on wet. The sensation does little to dampen her excitement.

“Ah, finally.” Ana looks up. Her face betrays no surprise or enjoyment at Angela’s approach; she might as well be a faceless wheeled omnic delivering their tea. Ana is out of Overwatch’s tactical garb and lovely in charcoal-grey pants and a neat olive jacket. Her dark hair is pulled over one shoulder in a loose braid.

The other woman shifts in her chair, and though Angela’s face is burning and she does not want to give her the benefit of attention, she cannot help but look.

Moira O’Deorain is almost too tall for her seat. Her legs are stretched out, her slacks riding up to display argyle socks and sleek black dress shoes. She is handsome, and Angela loathes her for looking so attractive when her work and personality are anything but.

Unlike Ana, this is a new sight for her, but she too offers no visible reaction to the sight of Angela emerging from the kitchen and approaching them.

But she must feel _something,_ Angela thinks, frustrated, or what is the point? Ana is measured, still, a sniper even when not on the battlefield. But O’Deorain is not, and Angela is showing off so much of herself.

Her hair is up in its usual ponytail. She wears nothing but a white babydoll, sheer and lacy. Her nipples are clearly visible through the material, as is her shaved mound. White thigh-highs, similarly translucent, complete the excuse for an outfit. 

Angela reaches them and bends down to set the tray on the small table between the two. She makes to let go and back away, but Ana preempts her by clearing her throat.

“Pour it, Angela. Where are your manners?”

So she lifts the cups, one at a time, and pours steaming hot tea into them, before handing one saucer to Ana and one to O’Deorain. O’Deorain’s fingers brush against hers as she takes it, and they are cool. Angela’s thoughts are arrested by thoughts of those fingers cool and electric elsewhere on her body.

“Its nipples are hard,” O’Deorain comments, and Angela very nearly jolts. Her face was warm before, but now she feels as if her ears must be the color of O’Deorain’s hair. There is no question to whom O’Deorain is referring, and how demeaning, how _dehumanizing—_

Ana chuckles softly. “Yes, she’s always been an eager one. Down.”

The latter command is for Angela’s benefit. She drops to hands and knees like the trained dog she is. O’Deorain impatiently taps the floor in front of her with one foot, and Angela hesitates only a moment before obediently crawling forward. For a brief instant she imagines that O’Deorain will unzip her fly and beckon Angela closer, closer, allow her to touch and taste—

But that fantasy is foiled when O’Deorain merely swings her legs up and rests her feet, crossed at the ankle, on Angela’s back.

Her shoes will dirty the cloth, Angela thinks.

O’Deorain snorts.

“This tea is over-steeped. What was it doing in the kitchen, fingering itself? Too occupied with its own pleasure to serve properly?”

“It _is_ bitter,” Ana agrees. “I wouldn’t put it past her, fantasizing about what she thought would happen. I told you she was eager.”

Angela bites her lips. She must not move, must not give anything away. She knows that the more evidence she gives them of how _much_ she is enjoying this, the longer they will draw it out. She cannot rock her hips or whine or even beg. But if O’Deorain were to lean just right, she could look right between Angela’s thighs and see how wet she is.

“It seems obedient enough, though. How do you train it?”

O’Deorain’s drawl is as attractive as the rest of her. Every _it_ brings another pulse to Angela’s swollen clit.

Her arms and knees are beginning to complain of the effort of maintaining her animal position, but she does not dare even shift.

“She responds well to praise, but better to punishment, I would say,” Ana says conversationally. “But you’re welcome to try your own methods, Doctor O’Deorain.”

“Oh, I would love to,” she responds, and Angela can almost hear her smirk.

_Yes,_ she wants to beg.  _Please, please, do whatever you want to me._ She wants to roll onto her back and present herself more than she already is. To ask both of them whether they like the outfit she chose; to kiss Ana and taste her and feel her thighs pressed around her head; and to learn the flavor of O’Deorain and whether she kisses as sharp and precise as the rest of her.

But she cannot. Not yet, anyway. All she can do is wait, in delicious agony, for her mistress and their guest to decide what is to be done with the woman kneeling between them. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unhappy valentine's day, everyone

It is evening and the drink is bourbon and Angela’s lingerie is lavender. There is no excuse in delaying in the kitchen this time; however much some part of Angela longs to discover what O’Deorain considers suitable punishment, she knows that acting out deliberately will bring her nothing pleasurable. She will please her mistress, whatever the whims of their now second-time guest.

O’Deorain has requested her drink on the rocks, so Angela carefully fills one cup with large ice cubes before putting both glasses and the bottle on the tray and heading out to where the two older women are talking.

The walk is somewhat cumbersome, though not because of the tray. Rather, she is distracted by the sensation of a foreign object inside her. Each step jostles the plug. It is not small, and though she would not go so far as to call it enjoyable, neither would she call it uncomfortable.

Mostly it is the thought of exactly what she is doing that titillates her. She is dressed in nothing but a lace teddy, a plug wedged in her ass, at the beck and call of the two women sitting before her. She is window dressing; she is there to be looked at and enjoyed and nothing more.

“Tell me how your experiment last week went. You mentioned you’re looking into cell regeneration?” Ana says, her eyes wandering onto Angela’s approaching body but voice and face remaining level and smooth.

O’Deorain clicks her tongue. “My apologies, Captain Amari, but my work belongs to Blackwatch. I’m afraid Commander Reyes would be cross with me if he knew I was sharing.”

“Yes, Gabriel likes to keep his people on a short leash,” Ana says, smiling. “But you know I can be just as unpleasant.”

O’Deorain’s lips curl upward. Angela does not like that expression. It is a fox’s grin, hiding secrets that suddenly she very much wants to be party to. She agreed to this, and indeed enjoyed it very much, but she looks between the two of them and wonders—

“Ah, here we are.”

O’Deorain’s drawl interrupts her. Angela hurriedly sets the tray down and reaches for the bottle, filling first Ana’s glass and handing it to her mistress before proceeding to O’Deorain’s. Before she can pour, however, their guest forestalls her.

O’Deorain fetches a single cube of ice with her spidery fingers and holds it aloft.

“A well-trained pet neither moves nor makes noise without a command,” she says conversationally. She’s looking at Angela but not really, her head turned just enough to make it clear that she does not consider her worthy of addressing.

“Indeed,” Ana agrees.

Then the ice cube is pressing against Angela’s lips, and O’Deorain actually _does_ make eye contact with her. Her pupils are blown wide but her expression is haughty as ever. She is daring her to react. She is daring her to disobey.

Angela does not, even as O’Deorain slowly slides the ice down her chin and then her neck. It leaves a wet trail of cold skin in its wake, so sensitive.

Angela clenches around the plug, but she does not move. She does not make a sound.

It glides along her collarbone and then O’Deorain’s fingers are playing with the lace strap, and then dipping behind it. The ice moves down onto the sensitive flesh of her breast and comes to a stop on her nipple.

It feels good, very good, for a few seconds, and then the cold begins to ache. It is uncomfortable then, but she says nothing. She does not move. In this, as in so many things in her life, she will be perfect.

Soon enough O’Deorain pulls her fingers and the ice cube back out, leaving Angela damp and tingling. She barely has an instant to recover before O’Deorain moves down to where the sloping _v_ of the lace’s neckline comes to a point. Angela’s breath catches in her throat. Last time they did not touch her, hardly even looked at her enough, but now this teasing makes her wonder which way is better.

O’Deorain is very quick. She barely brushes Angela’s skin at all. But the small, quickly-melting ice cube presses against her clit, and O’Deorain pulls her hand back, leaving it behind.

Angela is sure now that her own eyes are dark and needy. She mindlessly flexes around the plug as if it will be able to assuage the ache, but it cannot. The ice slips lower, away from her clit. The second of pleasure dissipates and leaves her with nothing but lust.

Ana clears her throat, and both other women startle and look at her. Her face is stern enough to make Angela’s concern with her own pleasure dissipate.

“Angela, down. Moira, come here.”

She is shrugging off her fatigues. Angela’s heart beats faster. She kneels obediently down on her hands and knees and tilts her head to let her watch.

O’Deorain stands and comes to Ana’s chair with a single pace, not as quickly as Angela but not slowly, either. Angela  watches Ana reach up and grab her by the tie, pulling her down with a good deal of force.

Angela waits on hands and knees and watches them kiss.

O’Deorain settles on the chair with her knees on either side of Ana’s lap, and then Ana swings up her legs and rests her boots on Angela’s back. They are heavy, combat-issue things, and the heel digs into her shoulder blades, but she does not complain. She is too occupied with the wet noises of their mouths.

O’Deorain lets out a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and it resonates between Angela’s thighs. She closes her eyes.

The bourbon is forgotten, undrunk. O’Deorain’s glass has gathered a faint layer of condensation. Like Angela, it sits unattended and wet while its master is better occupied.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my hole!! it was made for me!!!

The operating room is frigid to Angela’s bare skin. So many hours she’s spent in this theater stitching up her fellow agents, and now she has no power at all. Her place of work, perverted. Not a surgical patient, but just her, wearing thigh-high stockings and a thick leather collar instead of a patient’s gown. The floor is tile and very cold even through the nylon.

The lights overhead are bright enough that she can vaguely make out moving shapes through her blindfold, but the visual clues are little aid in knowing where the other two women are or what they are doing. She is also unable to remove the blindfold, even if she wanted to; her hands have been bound at the wrist above her head and tied to what she thinks is a utility column. Her feet keep slipping on the floor and only her tied arms hold her up. Her shoulders already ache.

But she doesn’t want to move. She is certain that whatever comes next will be enjoyable. It always is.

“Shouldn’t I be serving you?” she says eventually, trying to get some clue of where Ana and Moira are and what they’re doing.

“Oh, you will be. And I intend to take.” As Moira speaks, a shadowy figure blocks out the light, and then nails are closing around one of Angela’s nipples. It’s already so stiff and sensitive from cold and anticipation that Angela arches forward as if presenting herself.

“Patience, _Engel._ Or do you need a gag as well?” Ana chides from somewhere behind Angela. 

She quiets, objective achieved. She wouldn’t mind a gag, anyway, except that it would prevent her kissing or servicing the women to whom she has turned over control so completely.

“Such a pretty color,” Moira murmurs, still trailing her fingers over Angela’s nipples. Angela is needy already. Her hips rock forward in small jerks and her pussy clenches around nothing. “I’d like to pierce them through. Make you wear golden hoops and pull you about by a chain. Perhaps your clit too, you filthy thing. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

With Ana already having reprimanded her, Angela does not speak. But as the flush colors her cheeks and her pride gives way, she can’t refrain from the smallest of nods.

“Of course you would. Fucktoy.”

Moira flicks her nipples and Angela comes very close to begging for anything more, for her to keep speaking, keep touching. She wants to hear how disgusting she is. Humiliation and arousal burn in equal measure through her body.

“All right.”

It’s Ana’s voice now, and it’s closer. The dark shapes are moving through the blindfold, and then a warm hand cups Angela’s cheek, too gentle and calloused to be Moira’s.

“Say your safeword, _habibti._ ”

“ _Rot_ ,” Angela says at once.

“Good girl.” Ana strokes her cheek. “Say it again and we’ll stop at once, understand?”

Angela nods, her mind racing. Ana reminding her is not unheard of, but it is unusual. Whatever they’re about to do must be something new—

Moira’s hands are suddenly groping at her buttocks, kneading them, digging her cruel nails in.  She spreads them and then, with her thumbs, pulls Angela’s hole open. 

The strap-on is not particularly girthy, and it has been slathered in lubricant to ease the passage, but Angela still tenses at once when it brushes her. The lube is freezing, and the prod of it against her ass is not particularly pleasant. 

“Good girl,” Ana encourages her, holding her sides in place. Angela bites her lip and tries not to squirm too much, tries to relax. The dildo wriggles its way inside her. Moira is surprisingly considerate with her pace; she moves slowly rather than slamming it in all at once. But soon enough her body is pressed to Angela’s back, just skin and the toy she’s sporting buried deep inside Angela.

“You take it so easy,” she jeers. “Like you were made for me.”

Angela says nothing. Her body adapts to the thing inside her, not painful at all thanks to the lubricant. Then Moira begins moving in short, hard thrusts, and Angela shudders to think of Moira O’Deorain, the woman she loathes by day, fucking her ass open.

Ana’s fingers gently probe between her thighs, spreading her lips.

“You’re wet,” she murmurs. “Ready for me, _Engel_?”

Angela realizes what’s about to happen a few moments before the larger dildo slides against her, and she cannot stop the little sound from escaping her lips. Both of them,  _both of them, inside her—_

Ana’s way in is easier, even given the size of her own strap-on. She fits the head inside, stretching Angela’s cunt open, and then she grips Angela’s hips hard and thrusts the rest in. Angela’s lips fall open in a silent cry as the toy fills her.

They don’t allow her even a moment to catch her breath. Ana pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, and Moira resumes her sharp thrusts, and Angela can’t stop herself from making sound any longer. Her breath comes out in gasps and moans and her hips jerk as she’s caught between lengths, pressed between the bodies of the older women using her so ruthlessly.

Ana kisses her, open-mouthed and sloppy, and Angela tries to match her motions but can’t focus on anything but the dildos inside her, fucking her. Moira’s hands are playing at her breasts again, and each pinch of her nipple goes straight to her clit. Ana’s thrusting hard and steady, and with Angela’s ass full each thrust angles forward and catches right on the sweet spot that makes her eyes roll back and her legs go numb.

She’s not really standing of her own accord any longer, hardly even supported by her aching arms and shoulders tied above her head. She’s supported by Moira and Ana pinning her between them.

She dares to lift her legs off the ground entirely, to wrap them around Ana, and then the strap-on catches her perfectly again and again, and she’s _coming, so full, pinned between their cocks—_

She cries out; she can’t help it. Her body convulses and she clenches hard around both of them, hips grinding as she desperately chases the orgasm for all it’s worth.

The aftershocks leave her panting hard and shaking. She’s going to be so sore tomorrow, but she can’t imagine anything more worth it.

Ana leans in very close so that her breath brushes Angela’s ear.

“We’re not done with you, _Engel._ Not by a long shot.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated!


End file.
